


Zombies Marching Through The Mist Makes Me Think Of Being Kissed

by xysabridde



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: M/M, ficathon 2013, lifein1973
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-30 23:36:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1024738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xysabridde/pseuds/xysabridde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Xysabridde's entry to the lifein1973 Ficathon 2013. Sam receives a threat against someone he dearly needs; meanwhile, Gene's life is somewhat different. For the prompts 'Gene wakes up different, inhuman, hiding in plain sight', gratefully received from lacidiana.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Zombies Marching Through The Mist Makes Me Think Of Being Kissed

  He opens his eyes. It’s nothing dramatic. The ceiling is the same off-white, the walls their usual plain orangey-brown; his cufflinks are jumbled in their tray on top of the dresser, the third draw is half-ajar, as always. Next door’s cat is yowling, number sixteen’s teenager is having a strop.

 

  There’s something in the air he’s breathing. It tastes purer. It whispers down his throat in a way it’s never done before, until his thoughts turn to it, when it suddenly feels the same again. Or perhaps he’s just adjusted. He has a lot of that to do.

 

  He pulls himself upright, and where his back used to crack, it’s now silent. Where there used to be pain in his knee as of a morning, there is now nothing.

 

  He stares at his own reflection in the mirror, staring first at one eye, then the other. Widening them just makes him look funny. Narrowing them makes him look dangerous, and he prefers that, so he closes them completely as he stands up and leans against the wall, palm pressed flat to the cold plaster.

 

  _What were you expectin’, you div? Goblin dust an’ rainbows? Only ‘appens like that in shitty films._ Gene pulls himself away from the wall, tramps through to the bathroom, shoves the tap on full for a steaming hot bath. Why he feels the need to practise thorough cleanliness and therefore make himself thoroughly late this morning, after all the tumult of last night, may be more mental than physical, but as he perches on the side of the bath and runs a damp hand through his tangled hair, it’s only just beginning to sink in and he can’t quite face CID yet.

 

  This morning, Gene Hunt is different, because last night, Gene Hunt killed a man.

 

-0-0-

 

  “You didn’t ‘ave a clue, did you, Noyes.” Sam Tyler, bored as hell and mildly hung-over, leans back in his chair, folds his arms and fixes Noyes with a mild imitation of his DCI’s interrogation-room glare. The full one tends to give him indigestion, and he’s got enough problems as it is. “Didn’t ‘ave the foggiest that the bag we found in yer car was full of drugs. Come off it, we both know that won’t wash with a jury, it doesn’t even bloody wash with DC Skelton.”

 

  Chris frowns. “Guv says anything to do with drugs is suspect an’ we shouldn’t believe it.”

 

  Sam, looking slowly round, closes his eyes and determinedly counts to ten. Noyes makes a small confused noise.

 

  “Anyway. Look, just tell me where they came from, we’ll bang you up, we won’t ‘ave to bring DS Carling in to jump up an’ down on yer nuts. Square deal for everyone, yeah? Be much easier for you. An’ me, because quite frankly, cleanin’ blood up ‘as never been my favourite part of the job.” He inclines his head towards Noyes, whose small, bloodshot eyes are darting between Sam and Chris, glinting in the gloomy light. “Name, address, an’ we’re all ‘appy. Understood?”

 

  “I don’t know a name,” Noyes mutters, huddled into his parka, casting his gaze around as though he expects someone to leap out of the shadows, one hand stuffed into the left hand pocket of his jacket. “Only a nickname, like. Stuff’s not mine, Officer-”

 

  “Nickname, then. An’ Phyllis can book you into the cells. You’ll love it down there, they even ‘ave an ensuite.” Sam slides a piece of paper and a pencil over to Noyes, who wipes his sweaty hands on his trousers, staring down at the stationery as though it might explode at any moment. His one hand returns almost immediately to the jacket. “Chris, you stay with Mr Noyes until ‘e decides to either make some of ‘is surname or tell us where ‘e got the coke from. I’ve got better things to do.”

 

  “Make some…” Chris screws his face up. “Make some… Noyes… oh!” He grins.

 

  Sam has to force himself not to groan too loudly as he sweeps out, pushing the door closed behind himself with a bang that doesn’t echo half the frustration he’s feeling. At least Annie should be in by now, and might be able to lend him a spare set of nerves to replace his trampled ones, he thinks as he starts down the corridor towards-

 

  “You got me my names yet, Tyler?”

 

  “Jesus, Guv! What did you do that for?” Sam leaps round, almost coming cheek-to-cheek with Gene, leaning against the wall outside the canteen with that infuriating ever-so-slightly-smug look on his face. His already fraying nerves are mollified somewhat by the fact that Gene’s wearing his green shirt today. And some rather nice new aftershave. Has he run out of Brut? “Sometimes, Guv, I think you were put on this Earth solely to annoy me.”

 

  “Well, as life ambitions go, I can think of worse.” Gene hefts himself off the wall and strides down towards CID, Sam matching him step for step. “Noyes not squealin’ yet? Need me to pop in an’ bash ‘is knackers against the wall a few times?”

 

  “There is such a thing as civilised society, Guv, an’ believe it or not, some of us live in it. Can’t believe you missed the joke about ‘is surname there.”

 

  “This may surprise you, but I actually ‘ave a developed sense of humour, Tyler. An’ if Skelton ‘ad trouble gettin’ it, what chance do the rest of them divs stand? Cartwright might just about manage it, but you an’ me, Tyler, our brains are able to cope with words of more than one syllable without implodin’.” The very corner of Sam’s lip twitches. “Anyway. We might ‘ave a tip-off even without numb-nuts in there, ‘cos a postie’s come in from the shipyard with a big bag full of drugs come in fresh from South Brazil. Said it was supposed to be delivered to Noyes’ mum this morning, but when ‘e turned up an’ saw the police cars everywhere, ‘e thought ‘e might ‘ave a cheeky peek an’ deemed it important enough to bring it ‘ere ‘imself. Well, we do pay the bastard to deliver our post.”

 

  “Brazil? Long way to ship cocaine in, this must be someone experienced, tryin’ to make it ‘arder for us. Difficult for the cops to trace, unless we know exactly what we’re lookin’ for.” _And one day, it’ll be so much worse._ But Sam keeps his mouth closed. Gene’s hackles will be up already, it’s a drugs case after all, no need for him to exacerbate the situation by doing his loony-from-the-future routine. “Noyes might ‘ave something in ‘is jacket, couldn’t seem to let it go, but we need to ease off ‘im for the time being, make sure ‘e’s on side. ‘E said ‘e’d give us a nickname-”

 

  “I know. I was standin’ outside, crackin’ me knuckles a bit. Something not quite right with that bastard, ‘e’s a weirdo, I can feel it.” Gene shoves the doors to CID open, letting them swing back towards Sam as he marches into his office, only pausing to push Ray’s feet off the corner of his desk; Ray yelps as he’s half-deposited onto the floor, grabbing at his chair to stop himself being brained. “Raymondo! I’m sure some taxpayers would be glad of givin’ you the opportunity to take it easy, unfortunately, I’m not one of ‘em. Get on with some soddin’ work.”

 

  “We’ll need to get everyone workin’ on this, Guv.” Sam steps over Ray’s legs, half-jogging after Gene; Ray snarls something about “nancy poof” and throws a scrunched-up piece of paper after him. “Drop other cases, make sure the entire department is totally focussed. This needs to be nipped in the bud or it’ll turn into something extremely ugly.”

 

  “Ta, Sherlock. I’d figured that much out.”

 

  “Get Annie on it. She’ll do you proud an’ you know it.” Sam dodges round Gene, planting himself firmly in front of his DCI as he tries to slide past into his office. “Guv. Put Annie on this, now. Get the rest of ‘em onto details.”

 

  “Who’s the bloody DCI ‘ere?” Gene snatches him up by the lapels, green eyes glaring straight into Sam’s as the two of them nose-to-nose; Sam stares straight back, puffing his chest out against Gene’s, facing off until Gene shoves him backwards into the filing cabinet, deliberately turning away from the smug grin on Sam’s face. And it’s a surprise, that when he glances round, nobody’s even raised their eyebrows, but Gene getting physical with him is so normal by now. “Ow! Alright, if it’ll get you off my soddin’ back, but you just remember yer place, Detective Inspector. Flash-Knickers, I’m puttin’ you under Tyler-”

 

  “Guv!” Sam and Annie exclaim in unison as the entire office explodes with laughter.

 

  “Under Tyler’s bloody command! Oh Lord, if workin’ with these divs is a test… Tyler, yer in charge of tracin’ the supply route an’ any possible future deliveries. Find out who the underlings are, intercept what you can. Cartwright, keep ‘im stocked up with tea an’ make sure ‘e doesn’t start predictin’ lottery numbers instead. The rest of you useless gobshites, arses off chairs an’ out on the streets, I want you talkin’ to every snout goin’ about Brazilian cocaine comin’ onto the market. Who’s suddenly peddlin’ new stuff, where’s it being delivered to, who’s stupid enough to be samplin’ it. I want names, ladies, by the end of today, or I’m sure I don’t need to tell you the consequences will be bloody dire! MUSH!”

 

  In ten seconds flat, Gene, Sam and Annie are the only people left in the room. Gene puffs his chest out, pouts, and retreats to his office to kick the shit out of a bin.

 

-0-0-

 

  Sam walks Annie home. Or more accurately, Annie walks Sam home. He doesn’t ask her to walk with him, the last thing he wants to do is patronise her, but she seems worried about him today, constantly asking whether he’s alright, what’s distracting him, why he seems so on edge. It’s not the case- that’s playing on his mind, but he’s a bloody copper, he’s always on duty- and it’s not his relationship with Annie or Ray or Chris or even Gene, and incredibly, he’s actually got used to living in 1973 by now, so what the bloody hell is it that’s having him looking over his shoulder every five seconds? Why does the thought of walking all the way home alone make his skin crawl?

 

  “Maybe it was just the Guv’s attitude,” he reasons as they amble down the street towards Annie’s flat, keeping pace with one another in the way best friends can. He knows it’s nothing to do with Gene. “You know what ‘e’s like about drugs cases. I’m just waitin’ for the dead bodies to start turnin’ up, an’ for it to ‘ave been Brazilian cocaine that killed ‘em, an’ then apart from the grievin’ families an’ havin’ the Super on our backs, we’ll ‘ave a job stoppin’ the Guv from takin’ a jaunt down to the cells to take it out on Noyes.”

 

  “He’s learnin’, Sam. You’re teachin’ ‘im. You need to ‘ave a little more faith in ‘im, whatever else ‘e might be, ‘e’s got an ‘eart of gold. Well, that an’ tar.” Annie bumps her elbow against his, sighing softly as she comes to a halt outside her gate. The full moon’s just visible past her chimney stack. “Don’t lose sleep over it, we need you alert tomorrow, especially if the Guv’s in a grump. Just… go ‘ome. Relax. Take the pills Dr. Who prescribed.” She laughs, and he smiles for the first time in hours, the muscles in his cheeks feeling stiff and sore. Annie really is special.

 

  Now he just has to figure out why the peck on the cheek goodbye he gives her doesn’t even give him the faintest of ideas about how she would be in bed. Nothing at all. It’s like he’s six years old again, and the only interest he holds in anyone who isn’t… a particular person in the office… is building toy forts with them. And it’s driving him bloody crazy.

 

  He watches her inside, just to delay the return to his hovel for a few more seconds, then accepts defeat and heads off down the road, glancing over his shoulder at every noise.

 

  He hears his phone ringing from halfway down the hall, sprinting up to his door from three flats down and almost going arse over tit thanks to someone’s badly-placed doormat; he shoves his door open and snatches the phone up, collapsing onto his bed, and Christ the long day really is catching up on him, only exacerbated by Phyllis barking “Oi, DI Tyler. You takin’ yer time with WPC Cartwright?” down the line.

 

  “Well, as yer talkin’ to me, via the phone in my flat, which despite my best wishes is definitely not mobile, we can safely assume I am actually at my flat, Phyllis.” He rubs his forehead and begs the budding headache to dissipate.

 

  “You should be on the stage, Boss. Right funny bastard, you are.”

 

  “Oh, Phyllis, how I enjoy the edifyin’ banter we ‘ave. How is yer bloke’s guide dog?” Christ, he sounds just like Gene. That should worry him more than it does.

 

  “Very good, Boss. One of yer neighbours called, said someone ‘ad broken into yer flat, is anything missing?”

 

  “Eh?” Sam looks up-

 

  Half his wall is gouged out, frenzied clawing marks everywhere; his counter lies in bits, his sink cracked and distorted on the floor. The clothes in his wardrobe have been ripped to shreds, bits of his bedspread decorating the lampshade, half of which is missing. His cracked and dented fridge is wide open, the food inside destroyed. His television lies on its side, obliterated, shards of glass glittering in the dim light from the smashed window.

 

  And a single piece of paper is taped onto his bathroom mirror, fluttering in the breeze.

 

  “ _Jeeeesus…_ ”

 

  “Boss? Is someone there? You there, get over ‘ere now, urgent call comin’ in!”

 

  “No- no, it’s just me, Phyllis. Me an’ the wreckage of what used to be my flat.” Sam falls silent, vision blurred, and it’s irrational but there are tears forming in his eyes. His flat’s a grotty little shithole, he didn’t even choose to move in here, why should he be upset? Probably just the shock. “Send- send a constable round, it’s not urgent, tell ‘em everything’s been trashed but I don’t think anything’s missin’. An’ see if you can rouse the Guv, I’ll need to take advantage of ‘is spare room.” Without waiting for an answer, he drops the phone in the cradle, slowly stands up, inches towards the bathroom, heart beating in his throat.

 

  _Stop your investigation. Let Noyes go. You can have the cocaine. And one last thing: You leave us alone, and don’t tell anyone about this note, or we will shove a specially designated bullet through your DCI and string his carcass up outside your station. You won’t escape and nor will he. Signed, a friend._

 

  Sam snatches the note, hides it away in the breast pocket of his jacket, and stumbles away, out of the flat and down the stairs.

 

-0-0-

 

  Gene’s always exhausted after going through this. Maybe it’s the effort of spending all night trying to destroy his cellar that leeches his energy, or maybe just the hours he spends throwing himself at the walls, shouting and scratching as though his life depended on it; either way, he’s sore and cold and completely drained, gums sore and bleeding, fingers stiff, joints aching. He just cannot for the life of him summon the energy to get up off the floor, much less clamber up the stairs to the kitchen, even though his head’s thumping with dehydration.

 

  He’s lying there, bollock-naked, curled up and shivering, when the phone rings. And carries on ringing. It’s drilling right into his bloody headache and he groans, turning over, sheltering his ears with his arms. Whoever they are, they can sodding go away, and Tyler can manage.

 

  Or maybe not, because not a minute after the phone stops ringing, the doorbell rings, and someone knocks five times. Only Sam knocks five times, one rap, two raps, two raps, like there’s some jaunty little tune permanently rattling around in his slightly loony head. Gene pushes himself up with an effort, retrieves his clothes from the basket in the corner, and starts laboriously getting dressed again.

 

  “Guv? Guv! You in there? You alright? Guv! You don’t go to bed this early.” Sam knocks again, rap-ra-rap-ra-rap. _Impatient bugger._ “I’ve got whisky. Bell’s? Thought it might sweeten you up. Or get you drunk enough that you can bear my company.”

 

  Groaning in the back of his throat, Gene stumbles over to the stairs, beginning the incredibly difficult task of negotiating his way up them. “I’m bloody comin’!” he shouts, although it comes out as more of a croak. Something to do with all the howling he’s been doing, although that’s slightly confusing, because he’s in a sodding basement and the only person who would hear him- hopefully- is himself. Probably just instinct. Like dogs rolling in shit or licking their own arseholes.

 

  He lurches over to the front door and tugs it open, leaning heavily against the wall as Sam peers at him, bottle of whisky held aloft.

 

  “You ill? Or did you start on the scotch without me?”

 

  “No, an’ no,” Gene whispers. “What d’you want?”

 

  “My flat’s been ransacked. All my things’ve been destroyed. I needed somewhere to stay.” Sam hefts the bag held over his shoulder closer, reaching out to press the back of his hand to Gene’s forehead; Gene slaps his arm away. “Why’re you so cold? Come on, inside, so I can take a proper look at you.”

 

  “Sod off, Nurse Tyler. When I need your concern, I’ll bloody tell you.” But he props the door open all the same, using the wall to help himself through into the living room as Sam closes the door and follows, grabbing his elbow to all but drag him over to the sofa and lie him down on it, ignoring Gene’s protests.

 

  “Ow- gerroff me! Stop bloody motherin’ me, Tyler.”

 

  “What’s ‘appened? You were fine when I saw you earlier.” Sam disappears into the kitchen, and from the bustling and opening and shutting of drawers Gene assumes he’s looking for a thermometer. He threw everything glass or china out after cutting himself one night, went out and bought some metal cups and plates instead. He’s not always particularly bright on nights like tonight.

 

  “Leave it be, Tyler. I’m fine, just need sleep an’ a bloody vat of whisky.” He pushes himself upright, stretching his legs out in front of himself, just in time for Sam to shove a cup of water into his hand. “Don’t drink anything that isn’t brewed.”

 

  “Drink that, then I’ll get you some whisky if I’m feelin’ generous.” Sam nods down at the cup, plumping down on the armchair by the fireplace. “Couldn’t find any proper glasses, only broken ones.”

 

  “When the Missus left,” Gene murmurs, gulping the water down, and it doesn’t brand into him like whisky does but it’s satisfying all the same. “You can ‘ave my bed, I’m not movin’ off ‘ere, ta very muchly.” With the bottle of Bell’s down by his foot, and the headache ever-so-slowly subsiding, he doesn’t want to move an inch, even for the comfort of his own bedroom. Sam frowns.

 

  “It’s your ‘ouse.”

 

  “Yeah, an’ I’m knackered. So be a good boy an’ go an’ tuck yerself up, an’ if yer quiet I’ll come an’ read you a bedtime story.” He jerks his thumb towards the stairway, and Sam’s not thick enough to argue the point any further, hauling himself out of the armchair and up to the bathroom. A cap pops, the tap runs, and the sound of Sam brushing his teeth is strangely rhythmic, oddly soothing.

 

  Gene tips himself sideways, spreading himself out over the sofa, eyes closed as he wriggles into position. He’s fast asleep by the time Sam tiptoes back down, the blanket from Gene’s bed clasped in both arms, and drapes it over him, chancing one last feather-light brush of his fingertips over Gene’s forehead before he pads back upstairs, turning the lights out as he goes.

 

-0-0-

 

  “Good morning, Sam.”

 

  He opens his eyes-

 

  She’s right in front of him, so close she could reach out and grab him as he screams and scrambles away, toppling off the bed, smacking his head on the bedside table but _Jesus_ she’s followed him out of the television and she’s here and she’s dappled in the moonlight, she’s real, she’s _bloody real_ -

 

  The Test Card Girl points out into the hallway, and Sam swerves round to the sight of Gene brushing his teeth in the bathroom, rumpled and bedheaded, the radio crackling along beside him. And he’s so normal, innocent in a strange way that only Gene can manage, tapping his bare toes along to the beat, reaching round to scratch at the base of his back as he scrubs, one side, then the front teeth, then the other side.

 

  “Isn’t he nice, to let you sleep in his bed?” The Test Card Girl waves a hand, and Gene spits. “To sleep downstairs and let you have the comfy mattress?”

 

  “He was- he was just tired, that’s all.” Sam clutches at the frame of the bed, the wall beside him. “How did you follow me? The TV was smashed, I saw it, glass everywhere, all the innards-”

 

  “Gene’s got a television. It’s out in the garage, in case he smashes it.” She places Bubbles down on the foot of the bed, slowly, almost ceremonially. “He must be a very good friend of yours, letting you turn up without even warning him.”

 

  Gene wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, runs his fingers under the tap. Then he spits again, and this time it’s not toothpaste, it’s blood.

 

  “Yer brushin’ too hard, Guv,” Sam mumbles.

 

  “Is he, Sam? Do you think so?” The Test Card Girl picks Bubbles up again, cradles him. “Or maybe he’s not brushing hard enough. What do you think? His teeth are very sharp. Maybe he should get someone to make them blunt.”

 

  “What?” Sam stares from her to Gene, her to Gene, and back to her. “What’re you-?”

 

  “BANG!” She throws Bubbles straight into his face-

 

  “JESUS!” Sam thrashes away, struggling against the weight on him, and then there’s a hard slap to the side of his face and he rips his eyes open to Gene, a smear of toothpaste on his lip, hands on Sam’s shoulders as the pair stand staring at each other, Sam on the bed, Gene leaning over him as though to kiss him. Gene’s breath is actually pleasant for once, warm and minty fresh and reassuring. And why Sam’s thinking that is dangerous territory.

 

  “You need a bloody straight-jacket, Marjorie,” Gene says finally, depositing Sam back onto the bed and straightening his spine, staring down at his DI. “What were you sayin’ about my teeth being too sharp? Christ knows what’s goin’ on in that brain of yours.”

 

  Sam gives a weak smile. “I ‘ope not. It’d be Hell for me, if ‘e did.”

 

  “Mm.” Gene turns on his heel and marches out, leaving Sam huddled under the sheets, wondering what the hell just happened, and why the thought of losing a man who slapped him awake is so soul-destroyingly terrifying. And why Gene would be afraid of smashing his television.

 

-0-0-

 

  “I want Annie off the drugs case. Along with the rest of the department.”

 

  Gene chokes on his mouthful of whisky. “You bloody what?”

 

  “You were…” Sam closes his eyes and counts to ten. Christ, and he’s supposed to be the grown-up. But if they know where he lives, they’ll know where Gene… “You were right. It’s not productive. Get them doin’ other things, back on the crimes they were on before this came up. I’ll take this one myself, alone.”

 

  Gene carefully swallows what’s left of his drink, giving a small burp. “Any particular reason for yer lightning-fast U-turn, Tyler? Any logic behind it, or did someone call from the Planet of the Clangers tellin’ you it was a bad job?”

 

  “I just… well, it’s clearly not a big supply chain, is it? We’ve bigger fish to fry.”

 

  Gene glares at him from beneath his eyelashes. “Come on, Tyler. I’m not five. There’s got to be some reason behind this.”

 

  “Can you not just accept that I’m wrong for once! I want everyone else off the case, I’m sure I’ll be fine on my own, nobody’s informants knew anything, why can’t you be yer usual pig-headed self an’ laugh about DI Tyler the fruitcake being wrong! _Why can’t you bloody do that?_ ”

 

  “An’ I would do if it made any bloody sense! An’ now, Christ ‘elp me, I sound like you!”

 

  “Just- look at the evidence! One bag of cocaine from Brazil, could just be a one-off, could even be a wrong bloody address. Then one bag in a bloke’s unlocked car that could be from anyone and belong to anyone. No new stuff on the streets, no deaths reported, nothing! Noyes might well be innocent.” Christ, Chris would be making more sense than he is now.

 

  “Then you’d best dry those tears, Sammy-boy, ‘cos one of my snouts came up roses with this one. Said they were shippin’ drugs in every week, crate-loads of ‘em, through the port, only nothing’s ‘it the streets yet. Yer instincts were right, this is big, we need everyone out there doin’ what they do best… well, if you kick ‘em up the arse ‘ard enough.” Gene holds Sam out at arm’s length, eyebrows pursed. “So why aren’t you jumpin’ around proclaimin’ yer greatness at that then, Sam? You were right. We’re focussin’ on this. You should be singin’ Hallelujah, not standin’ there with a face like a wet Monday.”

 

  Sam makes a strangled noise, clenching his fists by his side, and Gene snaps, leaping up, grabbing Sam by the shoulders and shaking him hard. “Someone’s yankin’ your chain, aren’t they, Tyler?” He lowers his voice, his arm sliding round Sam’s shoulders, not so much comforting him as holding him in place. “Tell me. No secrets between a Guv an’ his DI now, Sammy, you tell me what’s ‘appened.”

 

  Sam struggles as best he can, pushing himself ever so slightly into the warmth of Gene’s arm until he realises what he’s doing and pulls himself away again. There’s an unpleasant feeling as the weight of Gene’s body crushes the note into Sam’s chest. “There’s… there’s nothing, Guv. It’s just such a small case. I feel stupid for over-estimatin’ it, that’s all.”

 

  “Bollocks.” Gene pulls him close again, hands clamped on Sam’s arms, and lowers his voice so far Sam has to strain to hear him. “What did they take? Watch, television, money, yer bank details?”

 

  “What?”

 

  “Yer flat was broken into, wasn’t it? Got to be linked. Something this sophisticated, course they’ll try threatenin’ the investigatin’ officers. Tell me. Who was it?”

 

  And Gene’s hit the bloody nail on the head without even meaning to. The one time he needs Gene to be stupid, he’s on fire. _No. Don’t think like that._

 

  “No, they didn’t take anything. Yer addin’ two an’ two an’ makin’ five. An’ why, if they came to my place, would they not go to yours? Yer the DCI. Why target the DI?”

 

  Gene sniffs. “Might not ‘ave noticed them. Was a bit pre-occupied last night. ‘Sides, the lock at yours opens if you look ‘ard enough at it.”

 

  “Right. Anyway. It’s possible the break-in was linked, but I’m serious, Gene. Brazil’s too far away for this case to be a severe problem, it’s ‘ard enough to actually learn Portuguese in Britain in- now, let alone the fact that communication must take weeks. If it does escalate, we can investigate it then.” Sam closes his eyes and prays for Gene to believe him. “Criminals aren’t bright, someone else’ll lock onto ‘em. Maybe another department’ll start an investigation.”

 

  “I can’t believe I’m bloody ‘earin’ this. Yer palmin’ this off on another station?”

 

  “Nope. I’m distributin’ cases. Being efficient. We’ve got more important stuff to look at.” If he’s working alone, everything will be so much easier.

 

  “You, Sam Tyler, want this investigation to go somewhere else, which is bloody ridiculous apart from anything else, an’ I want to know why, an’ I want to know _now._ ” Gene folds his arms, glaring at Sam from his inch advantage, and takes a step closer, so they are practically nose-to-nose. “So tell me.”

 

  “It’s not a viable investigation for the ‘ole department to be followin’!” Sam throws his arms out wide, determinedly blinking back the tears in his eyes. The one time he wanted Gene to be lazy… “Just trust me on this one, Guv. I can look into it an’ shut it down in days. No need for everyone to be focussed.”

 

  Gene pouts, gaze still fixed on Sam, flickering down to where Sam’s smoothing the leather over his breast pocket absent-mindedly. “You better be right about this, Tyler. A single body shows up, the rest of us will be askin’ for you to ‘and the investigation over. You find me a collar, fast, or else. Understood?”

 

  The knot of anxiety in Sam’s chest untightens for the briefest of seconds, only to clench sickeningly as Gene rounds his desk and plumps himself down behind it. The desk lamp throws Gene’s face into relief, and the sharp angles give Sam a jolt of shock at the realisation that he already knows all those details of Gene’s face off by heart.

 

  “Y- yes, Guv.”

 

  “Right then. Shift yer scrawny little arse before I shift it for you.” Gene waves his pen, dismissing Sam, already scribbling away at the file on his desk. “Unless you want to stay an’ get on with my paperwork.”

 

  “Funnily enough, Guv, I wasn’t goin’ to offer.” Sam backs out, forcing himself to breathe, and all but sprints over to his desk, gathering every scribbling to do with the case up and shoving them in the top left hand drawer.

 

  “You alright, Sam?” Annie’s hand lands on his shoulder, rubbing gently through the leather. “Did the Guv tell you off for something? Yer ever so pale. Yer not feelin’ ill, are you?”

 

  “No… no. Not really. You’d best carry on with collatin’ those statements from Rusholme, I’m alright for the time being lookin’ through these.” He slides his notes out from his top drawer, gives her a winning smile, and dips his head down as though the weight of the world weren’t on the back of his neck. Or tries to, but it’s difficult.

 

-0-0-

 

  The moment Sam goes to bed that night, padding through into the lounge and closing the door after finally managing to insist he’s on the sofa tonight, Gene sneaks out from the bathroom and snatches his jacket from over the banister, padding back upstairs with it as the sofa creaks and Sam calls out a goodnight, one he doesn’t reciprocate because one, Sam would hear he’s on the stairs and two, they’re blokes and blokes don’t say goodnight.

 

  The left front pocket holds only a pen and a handkerchief, clean and unused. On the right, there’s a list of Sam’s shopping for this evening, along with a scribbled recipe for something Gene’s never heard of, probably from one of the Asian birds Sam seems to get on so well with. Sam told him he was suspicious because Noyes was always keeping one hand over his coat pocket in interview; Sam’s been keeping his jacket close all the time, bundled up in his desk when possible, and Gene is a bloody detective. He knows Sam’s moods well enough by now to know he’s hiding something.

 

  He shoves his hand into the inner chest pocket. This feels… wrong, as though he’s prying into something literally close to Sam’s heart, and maybe it’s just because he wears that bloody jacket so much that he feels he’s invading Sam’s privacy, but he has to tamp that down because he’s the Gene Genie and Sam is his DI and therefore Gene owns him. Sort of.

 

  He pulls out a single folded piece of paper, scans it, and shoves it back so quickly he scrapes his finger on the zip.

 

  _Oh, sweet bloody Jesus. They know._

 

-0-0-

 

  Gene’s gone by the time Sam wakes up the next morning.

 

  “Ran off to meet a snout early, ‘e said,” Ray mutters when Sam asks, having finally dragged himself into CID, exhaling cigarette smoke from his nostrils like a grumpy, moustached dragon. “Said for you to get on with whatever you wanted an’ ‘e’d be back an’ brief you soon.”

 

  “… Right.” Sam sits unsteadily down in his chair, one hand grasping a cup of water, the other some paracetamol. Gene’s sofa is not conducive to sleeping the whole night on; add to that that he’s been getting uncomfortable fantasies about being back in Gene’s bed again. “Erm, Annie? I need to talk to you about this case.”

 

  “Yes, I was thinkin’,” Annie says quickly, pulling her own chair over to sit beside Sam, foraging in her pocket for a pencil. “See, if the supply’s comin’ from Brazil, we need to find someone who speaks Portuguese, or find any nearby language schools who teach Portuguese an’ get lists of pupils who’ve studied it enough to be fluent in it, or maybe any bookshops sellin’ Portuguese dictionaries-”

 

  “Annie. Yer off the case,” Sam says softly, putting the cup of water down on the table.

 

  “-an’ maybe if you find the route- I’m sorry?” Annie’s pencil hovers in thin air as she stares at Sam, mouth wide open. “Did you just say-”

 

  “Guv’s orders. Just me on this case, too small for more than one person to be focussed on. Thanks for yer ‘elp, but I’ll take it from ‘ere. No need for you on this case, it’s ‘ardly the crime of the century, an’ it’s drugs after all, it could get… dangerous, it’s better just one person focusses on it.”

 

  Annie gapes for a second longer, before closing her mouth and standing up. Sam stares down at his desk, heat flooding his face.

 

  “No need for me on this case? Really?” Annie’s voice is low and disbelieving as she leans back down towards him, looming over him. “This is only a major drugs case, after all, it’s not as though we need people on this, is it? An’ in case you ‘adn’t noticed, I don’t need protectin’, Sam.” And then she straightens up, pulling her skirt down, smoothing it over her legs.

 

  “Was it the Guv’s orders, or your request, sir?” she trills, in such a polite, icy voice Sam shivers. “When this came up, you were fightin’ to ‘ave me on the case, an’ today you’ve suddenly backtracked? Doesn’t make sense, sir. But then again, ‘ow should I know, I’m only a Detective Constable. An’ a Woman Detective Constable at that.”

 

  “Annie…” Sam says helplessly. It’s no use. She’s already gone, marching back to her desk without a single look back in his direction, plonking herself down and pulling a file towards herself to start on some paperwork. Ray whistles in the cold silence.

 

  “Lovebirds ‘avin’ a tiff, are they? We’ll wait for Daddy Bear to get back, I’m sure ‘e could put Annie over ‘is knee-”

 

  “Oh, shut up, Ray,” Sam mutters, picking his pen up and returning miserably to his work.

 

-0-0-

 

  “Hiya, Mrs B. You got a sec?”

 

  “I’ve got many seconds, Eugene, but you’ll need a reason to occupy ‘em.” Mrs B, seventy if she’s a day and better informed than the average crime lord, peers at him through the gap her chain affords him, taloned fingers resting lightly on the doorframe. “Aren’t you at work?”

 

  “Yeah, that’s exactly why I need a sec. I’ve, er, got Garibaldis.” Gene holds the packet up, and Mrs B’s eyes light up as though he were holding a cheque to the Bank of England.

 

  “Well, why didn’t you say so? Come on, then.” She unhinges the door and steps back to allow him inside, shoving it closed again as soon as he’s in the hallway. “I ‘eard you again the night before last, y’know. Put me right off me tea.”

 

  “Sorry,” Gene mumbles, placing the Garibaldis down on the hallway table. “I, er, I’m tryin’ to be quieter.”

 

  “Bless yer little ‘eart, it’s ‘ardly your fault.” Mrs B pats his arm, picking the biscuits up on her way past to the kettle. “Milk an’ two sugars, as usual, eh?”

 

  “Ta muchly, Mrs B.” Gene leans against the hallway wall, watching Mrs B pouring tea and plating up the Garibaldis, passing his mug over to him with a smile and a rub on the shoulder. “Just needed to ask something about the night before last?”

 

  “Tuesday night. Cold, bit windy. Oh, an’ it was a full moon. I remember, it always comes through the drapes.” She raises her eyebrows at him as she shuffles past into the living room, tea trembling dangerously; Gene rushes over to carry it for her. “Oh, yer a love. Sit yerself down, take yer coat off now, there’s a good lad.”

 

  Gene obediently pulls the camel-hair off, drapes it over the arm of the sofa. “Were you lookin’ out at all? At my place?”

 

  “I always keep an eye on you, love. Not ‘avin’ you destroy my petunias again.” She picks up a Garibaldi and shoves half of it in her mouth at once, chewing furiously. “An’ the fence always leans now, too,” she says thickly through her biscuit, lifting her tea to her lips for a slurp. “I keep askin’ the son-in-law to come an’ fix it, but to no avail.”

 

  “I’ll do that for you sometime. My fault anyway.” Gene picks up a Garibaldi himself, turning it over in his fingers, breaking it in two, then four, then eight. “Did anyone… go into my ‘ouse? Or near it? Apart from the bloke in the leather jacket.”

 

  “What makes you think I know about the bloke in the leather jacket?” Mrs B cackles, stuffing the other half of her biscuit into her mouth. “There were two men who went up to the door, about eleven-ish. They watched it for a bit, an’ left. Most peculiar, they were, didn’t ring the doorbell or anything. There wasn’t even anything ‘appenin’ then. Just went up, watched you for a bit, an’ left.”

 

  Gene swallows, hard. “Did you see what they looked like?”

 

  “Not really, love, it was dark. But the one ‘ad a long brown coat, with fur on it, y’know, them fancy linings that cost an arm an’ a leg. Got ‘is ‘air all swept back too, must’ve been a rich bastard, or maybe a crime lord.” Mrs B takes a huge bite of another Garibaldi, closing her eyes, and thus misses Gene’s eyes widening painfully, the clenching of his fist on his leg. “You know the way to an old woman’s ‘eart, you do, Eugene. Anything else you needed?”

 

  “Erm, not really. I’d best finish this off quick, my DI’ll be wonderin’ where I’ve got to, as will the rest of them useless bunch.” Gene takes a big gulp of tea, holding the mug clasped in both hands, as though in prayer. “Yer certain they were both blokes?”

 

  “Well, of course I am! Men often ‘ave a certain way of walkin’, Eugene. Like you. You don’t walk, you swagger, or march, or stride. If yer walkin’, either yer in pain or yer exhausted. These blokes, they swaggered their balls about. Could smell the testosterone from ‘ere, an’ it was none too fresh, either.” Mrs B laughs through her mouthful, holding her mug up in a mock toast. “’Ere’s to you bringin’ me biccies, eh, love?”

 

  “Don’t you go tellin’ anyone, now. I don’t want people thinkin’ I buy biscuits for just anyone.” Gene drains the mug and stands up, plonking it down on the table between them. “Better be off, then. Thanks, Mrs B.”

 

  “Yer welcome, love. ‘Ope you catch ‘em, whoever they are.” Mrs B levers herself up with some difficulty, tottering round to open the front door for him. “An’ if you ever need anything, this door opens for you, my daughter an’ that nice man from number sixty.”

 

  “I’d rather not know about the nice man from number sixty, Mrs B. A man can only withstand so many shocks in ‘is life.” Gene bends to give her a perfunctory peck on the cheek, breathing in the smells of talcum powder and sharp jasmine perfume. “You look after yerself now.”

 

  “You’re tellin’ me to look after myself? The ruddy cheek!” She bats him on the shoulder, pulling him in for a proper hug. “Now get out there an’ catch some bad people, alright?”

 

  He disentangles himself, shrugs his coat back on, and dodges out of the door before she can insist on a second cup of tea.

 

-0-0-

 

  “I want to speak to whoever’s in charge! They’re a right pest, they are, comin’ into the street an’ throwin’ litter about, no etiquette, can’t even speak English y’know, don’t know ‘ow they even got ‘ere!”

 

  Sam’s got a headache. A real migraine headache, borne out of studying five bits of paper over and over again, whilst being diligently ignored by Annie. It’s thudding somewhere around his temple, and Christ if only he had some of those nice pink ibuprofen his doctor used to prescribe, the ones that used to do for his back pain nicely… but alas, pink ibuprofen has not yet had its debut, here in Jurassic Park.

 

  “Boss!” Chris yells from the doorway, where he and Ray are trying to contain the considerable heft of the complainant, encased in brown wool and clutching a large bag perfect for hitting people with. “Boss, this lady would like a word wi’ you! ‘Er name’s Mrs Edgewick.”

 

  “Bring Mrs Edgewick over then, Chris, don’t just stand there.” He leans backwards in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb, and the throbbing’s getting worse but he severely doubts he’ll have any spare seconds in the next couple of hours to go and get something from a pharmacy, or even a glass of water. “Can I ‘elp you, madam? You said you ‘ad a complaint about some people in yer street?”

 

  “Right nuisance, they are!” Mrs Edgewick plumps herself down in a seat Chris hurriedly pulls over for her, face flushed and hair sticking to his forehead as he gratefully retreats back to his desk. “Used to be so nice an’ quiet too, I mean, the odd argument, an’ that silly expensive car the bloke ‘ad, but at least they were English! Well, sort of, with the girl, but them blackies are considered English too now, right? Anyways, I ‘ear them yellin’ at all hours, in some bloody foreign language, sounds a bit like Spanish but I wouldn’t know of course, an’ my ‘usband says to me, ‘e says, I don’t like what they’re doin’ there, I don’t quite know what they’re doin’ but I don’t like it-”

 

  “Sorry, but what exactly _is_ the problem?” Sam chances a glance up at Annie, praying for female assistance, but she’s seemingly engrossed in the inner workings of a stapler. Oh, for Gene and his direct approach, and his headache must be bad if he’s thinking that.

 

  “Noise at all hours! Playin’ records, loud as anything, an’ they none of them speak English, I tried sayin’ hello to this lady in there an’ she looked at me like I ‘ad two ‘eads, looked ever so young as well, maybe they don’t grow so fast in the Middle East or wherever they come from.” Mrs Edgewick shakes her head, tutting loudly, tongue sticking out through the gaps where her front tooth once was. “I don’t know, the state of the country nowadays-”

 

  “Sorry, what language did you say they were speakin’ again, Mrs Edgewick?”

 

  “Spanish. I think. I don’t know, dear, I don’t travel very much, not on my pension, squeezin’ us dry, these government types are, reminds me of when we ‘ad the old Lloyd George, although at least we ‘ad a sense of community then, all decent, ‘ardworkin’ British people rather than-”

 

  “Indeed, Mrs Edgewick,” Sam mutters, just to stop her talking. “Could you give me the address of the ‘ouse in question, an’ we can go round an’ ‘ave a look at it, see if there’s anything we need to investigate?”

 

  “Of course, dearie. ‘Ave you got a pen an’ paper?”

 

  Sam passes his pen and notepad over wordlessly; Annie’s head swivels his way for the briefest of seconds, but by the time he’s looked up at her, she’s talking with Chris instead.

 

  “There you go, Mr Tyler,” Mrs Edgewick says, handing him the notepad back. “I don’t know who was livin’ there beforehand, some bloke an’ his darkie bird that kept themselves to themselves, but I’ll tell you this, there’re strange things ‘appenin’ sometimes- fences broken, windows smashed, bangin’ an crashin’, an’ this howlin’, howlin’ like you’d never believe! Something out of a horror film, it was. My friend Edna ‘as the same thing, a couple of roads down, near where that boss of yours lives. An’ tree branches missin’, lamp-posts bent, I tell you, I’m callin’ the council every five minutes to get things repaired-”

 

  “Bet they love that,” Sam mumbles.

 

  “Sorry, dear?”

 

  “I said, I bet that’s a nuisance.” Sam puts on a full-wattage smile, even though it hurts his head. “Thanks for yer information, Mrs Edgewick. DC Skelton’ll see you out an’ home safely.” He motions to Chris, whose face drains of blood in a millisecond. “DC Skelton, if you’d accompany Mrs Edgewick to the front desk, an’ assure she ‘as someone to take ‘er home?”

 

  And with that, Mrs Edgewick is dispatched, as Sam leans back in his chair and sighs gustily, rubbing his temples with his fingertips.

 

  “Sam?”

 

  He squints up, the throbbing progressing from above his eye to the back of his skull. Annie is standing over him, mouth set in a thin line, proffering a cup of water and two small white pills, and it takes all of his willpower not to leap up from his chair and pull her into a huge hug right in the middle of CID. That, and she’s still holding the stapler.

 

  “Annie, yer a Godsend.” He reaches out for the pills and the cup, gulping both down in seconds, and it might just be his dehydrated brain, but he just feels that little bit more human again. “Oh, thank you.”

 

  “Mm.” Annie folds her arms, watching him silently. “Well, the case is too dangerous for me, but evidently fetchin’ you things isn’t, is it?”

 

  “Annie, that’s not what I meant- I’m sorry if that’s ‘ow it came out, but it really does need to be only me on this case, the Guv said so as well.” Sam leans forwards, motioning for her to sit down in Mrs Edgewick’s recently vacated chair; she does so, eyebrows pursed tightly. “I know you can ‘old yer own, I ‘ave absolutely no doubt.”

 

  “Well, why aren’t you runnin’ out of the door right now, then? Based on the information you just received?” Annie taps her finger on his notepad, then on his arm. “Sam, she said the people were speakin’ a language that sounded like Spanish.”

 

  “Yes, that’s right… Catalan, Portu- Jesus Christ!”

 

  “You’ll make a detective yet,” Annie smirks as he grabs his jacket, his notepad, and her, propelling them both out of CID with a single shout back to a dozing Ray that he’s in charge.

 

-0-0-

 

  “Where’ve Tyler an’ Cartwright gone?”

 

  “Out,” Ray yawns from his chair, fag hanging from his lip. “Rushed off after talkin’ to some old bird, come in to complain about a load of wogs livin’ next door to ‘er.”

 

  “They’re not wogs, Ray, they’re bloody Asians. Or wherever they come from.” Maybe he’s just been spending too much time with Tyler, but something makes him snap at that.

 

  “Same thing,” Ray mutters.

 

  “Right. If Twinkle-Toes an’ Flash Knickers ‘ave gone off somewhere, the rest of us can get on with some proper policin’ in the meantime.” He glares round at the assembled detectives until they’ve all gone back to their work, only then lowering his voice and leaning down towards Ray. “Need you to go round to Tyler’s flat an’ look for evidence of a break-in. Take Chris, document everything. I’ll come along as soon as Tyler an’ Cartwright get back. Stay there, write down descriptions of everyone you see, an’ only disturb what you ‘ave to. I’ll buy you an’ the div pints for a week. Understood?”

 

  “Yes, Guv,” Ray says, eyebrows knotted together. He levers himself out of his chair and motions to Chris, vanishing out of the doors together as Gene retreats to his office to neck some scotch.

 

-0-0-

 

  There’s no doorbell on number eighty Heath Road. No doorbell, no knocker, not even any glass. The windows are boarded up, the door locked tight, yet there’s a small heap of fast-food cartons just visible around the back of the house, and a cat yowling at the back door to be let in, mewling pitifully at the lack of attention.

 

  “Doesn’t look like anyone’s ‘ere at the moment, then,” Annie says quietly. Sam’s staring at the cat, a frown on his face, tapping his foot against the car footwell in a rapid little jig; he refused to get out, preferring to remain invisible in the car, too horribly aware of the little note in his pocket.

 

  “Maybe, but who gets a cat an’ doesn’t install a cat flap? Only someone who knows they’ll be there all the time for the cat. Doesn’t ‘ave a collar, either. Doesn’t look domesticated. Well fed, but not well cared for.”

 

  “Almost as though it was just adopted off the streets,” Annie says slowly.

 

  “But that aside… let’s go back to CID, get some surveillance in place. Could be the occupants ‘ave left, but they’ll be back.”

 

  “Maybe we’re just being led up a blind alley,” Annie says, in measured tones. “They might be Spanish. We might be wastin’ our time when we should be investigatin’ drugs- that is, if I’m back on the case.” She gives Sam a look, half from behind her hair. “D’you need to consult the Guv first, or is ‘e allowin’ you the officers you need?”

 

  “Oh, sod the Guv. We’re both grown ups.” He smiles at her, trying hard to keep the anxiety out of his face. This is Annie, why is he feeling so protective of Gene around _her_? “We just need to be… quiet about it.”

 

  “Why?”

 

  “Because…” Sam looks down, and _Christ’s sake_ but there are actually tears in his eyes. “Because, there’s someone in very real danger from this case.”

 

  “Who? Someone involved in it?” Annie moves forwards and rests her hand on his arm, rubbing gently. “Sam, you need to tell us if someone’s in danger, you need to tell the Guv, ‘e can organise protection- proper protection, not like Leonard- we can keep them safe whilst we find out who’s behind this, maybe they could leave the city or something-”

 

  Sam stuffs his hand into his pocket and snatches the note out.

 

  He stops.

 

  And holds up the note that when he put in his pocket, was very tightly folded, but is now flapping open in the breeze, dangling from his fingers as they start to shake.

 

  “Annie, get in the car, we need to get back to CID, now.”

 

-0-0-

 

  Sam marches into CID, rips his jacket off, and holds it up in front of the entire CID as everyone stops dead, staring up at their slightly unhinged DI.

 

  “Who touched my jacket?”

 

  Utter silence. Sam closes his eyes and takes a long, deep breath, glancing round at Annie beside him, pale-faced and clenching her hands in front of her.

 

  “Right. I came in ‘ere, put my jacket down, an’ I must’ve left it at some point, because someone read a piece of paper that was in the top chest pocket, just ‘ere.” He pats the breast pocket, rap-rap-rap-rap-rap on the leather, and everyone’s still looking at him as though he has two heads. “I need to know who read that piece of paper. It contained very sensitive key information, the identity of someone involved in this drugs case I’m ‘andlin’, the person who read it needs to come forward right now-”

 

  “Hm-hmm,” comes softly from Gene’s office, and the entire department turns as one.

 

  “Guv?”

 

  “In ‘ere.” Gene jerks his head backwards towards his office and turns to disappear through the swing doors, leaving CID gaping and more than a little confused as Sam marches down through the desks, Annie following at his heels, and into the lion’s den.

 

  The moment they’re inside, Gene kicks the litter bin so hard it skids across the room, smashing into a filing cabinet.

 

  “I bloody read it an’ I don’t know why, but I can’t ‘ave my DI sneakin’ round keepin’ secrets from me when they bloody concern me an’ my safety!” And he can’t quite meet Sam’s eyes, glaring at Sam’s shoulder as his fists clench and unclench by his sides, hissing through clenched teeth. “Why- didn’t- you- tell- me?”

 

  “I was scared. For your bloody safety. I know it doesn’t look like it, but I do actually mind if someone threatens yer life.” Sam hovers, not quite willing to move towards Gene; Annie shuffles backwards a little. “Guv, they made a direct threat to you, I thought I could ‘andle it without you gettin’ involved-”

 

  “For Christ’s sake, Tyler,” Gene says wearily. “They’ve been to my ‘ouse. They know where you live an’ where I live. One of us leaves, they’ll go for the other, both of us leave, they’ll go for both of us.” He scrubs his hands over his face and takes a step forwards, holding his hand out. Suddenly he looks exhausted. “Give me the note. I’ll ‘ave it sent down to Forensics.”

 

  Sam hesitantly places it in Gene’s outstretched palm. “You think they’re serious? An’ how d’you know they’ve been to yer ‘ouse?”

 

  “They went into your flat, Tyler. ‘Sides, this is drugs, they aren’t exactly kids pissin’ about with glue, are they? Brazilian drugs, no less. I want you an’ Cartwright on it, but keep it quiet.” He meets Sam’s eyes for a second, and there’s something in his gaze that makes Sam want to vomit with fear. That and Gene hasn’t answered his question, and although Gene can be slithery when he wants to be, he’s hiding something, and that’s not sitting right. “Ray an’ Chris went to survey yer flat earlier, didn’t find anything apart from massive great gouges in yer wall. Like they were made by some kind of bloody wolf.”

 

  “Wolves don’t leave threatenin’ messages.”

 

  “A werewolf might. Be the kind of nutter you might attract, Tyler.” Gene slowly taps the piece of paper with one outstretched finger, then shoves it in a drawer so abruptly Sam flinches. “Get back on the trail of those drugs. Find me a supplier, don’t let me find any dead kids out on my streets. Understood?”

 

  They nod silently and leave. Gene’s eyes track Sam all the way to his desk, daring to slope downwards for a split second before he shakes himself and heaves himself up to do some work.

 

-0-0-

 

  “You got anything for us, Noyes?”

 

  For the time being, Noyes will be released, pending further investigation. They’ll have police surveillance on him for as long as possible, but with Gene’s safety hanging by a thread, there can be no obvious police presence; Sam can’t bear to think of the possible consequences.

 

  “Two names,” he continues, stepping inside Noyes’ cell. The man is sitting hunched in the corner, twitching this way and that, eyes flitting from side to side as though he thinks there’s an intruder in his cell. “Those were the terms an’ conditions of yer release, two names that we could use. You got them?”

 

  “I- I told you, it’s only nicknames.” Noyes picks a piece of papers up in one scabby hand, long nails scratching the paper. His hands are shaking furiously. “One’s called- I think ‘e’s called Coltrane, but I’m not sure. That’s what everyone calls ‘im, I ‘ear them all the time, yabberin’ on about Coltrane. An’ the other one, ‘e’s called Bolan, like the musician, but I don’t know if that’s ‘is real name. Those are the two you should ask yer informants about. I’ve seen Bolan-”

 

  He breaks off, mouth working furiously but no sound coming out as Gene squeezes past Annie and Phyllis and into the cell behind Sam, watching Noyes with narrowed eyes. “What’s ‘e doin’ down ‘ere? I said only you, DI Tyler, get ‘im out of ‘ere, get ‘im out!”

 

  “Noyes, this is my DCI. I can’t ask ‘im to get out, even if I want to.” Sam half-turns, just to look at Gene briefly, and if that’s not _growling_ , low-pitched, animalistic growling, coming from the back of Gene’s throat…

 

  “What’s different about you, Noyes?” Gene says softly, almost to himself. “Why do you make my skin crawl?”

 

  “What you talkin’ about! ‘E’s mad! I want ‘im out of ‘ere! I want a solicitor! Let me bloody go, ‘e’ll kill me!” Noyes is senseless with terror, trembling wildly even though Gene’s a good three metres away, throwing himself at Sam only for Gene to grab him by the lapels and hold them face to face, shaking Noyes like a lion would its kill, and Noyes is whimpering and Gene’s still growling and the shakes are getting harder and harder until Noyes’ head is thumping against the wall-

 

  “Stop! Gene, let ‘im go!” Sam bursts forwards and tugs Noyes free in one yank, pushing Gene backwards and out of the cell; Gene stumbles, almost toppling over, caught and held up by Phyllis. “Noyes, just- come with me. We’ll take you out an’ release you.”

 

  “Lemme get the bastard,” Gene snarls, struggling against Phyllis’ grip on his arm; Sam pushes him up against the opposite wall, and it might well be just him but Gene’s not fighting as he usually does, he’s strangely compliant, almost- weak?

 

  “’E’s in custody an’ being let out, Guv, leave ‘im alone,” Phyllis barks, both hands on Gene’s arms. “Come on, ‘e’s not worth it!”

 

  “I’m yer senior officer an’ I’ll beat ‘im up if I want,” Gene growls, which Noyes takes as his cue to run.

 

  “Shall I escort ‘im out while you calm down?” The sentiment is genuine, but Sam only just dodges Gene’s slap, hurrying up and out of the cells after Noyes as Phyllis lunges for Gene again, only for him to shrug her off and storm away upstairs alone.

 

-0-0-

 

  The moment Noyes turns the corner from the station, he shakes himself, straightens his spine, and lopes along the pavement in great strides, upright and fists clenched, glaring around him. Sam, hiding in the hope of some slim fragment of knowledge about the case, is the polar opposite, crouched half to the ground, barely daring to breathe in case Noyes spots him, but the man seems too focussed, too self-absorbed and big, to even think he’s being followed. In fact, he is in every single respect different to the trembling, cowed man Sam interviewed not two days ago.

 

  Noyes rounds into another street and grabs a dustbin, smashing it into a lamppost, howling like a banshee as he marches to the house in front of him and rounds the flash coupé in the drive, crashes the door open, leaping inside. There’s a single, quickly hushed, scream.

 

  “Not again! I’m goin’ back to the police tomorrow, I’m tellin’ you!” a horribly familiar voice shouts from the next house.

 

  “Do what you want, you old hag!” Noyes yells as he slams the door to number eighty Heath Road shut, and the screams silence.

 

  Sam runs the whole way back to the station, but neither Gene nor Annie are there.

 

-0-0-

 

  “Number eighty Heath Road, Noyes went there an’ there was at least one other person there,” Sam pants as he forces his way through Gene’s front door, barely even pausing to tug his jacket off and fling it over the banister as he marches through into the living room and flops down onto the sofa, scribbling furiously at the notepad now balanced on his knee. Thus he misses the dirty look Gene gives him, as he removes Sam’s jacket from over his own camel hair coat, draping it over the hall table instead.

 

  “Number eighty, Heath Road?”

 

  “Why?”

 

  “That’s Tony Crane’s old address. The mental bastard who thought you were from the future?”

 

  “Tony… shit. Mrs Edgewick said something about a ‘darkie bird’.” Sam waggles his finger in the air, ignoring Gene’s roll of the eyes as he flops down into his armchair. “How’d you know that, anyway? Even your memory’s not that good that you log the addresses of every wrong-doer you beat up.”

 

  “I don’t beat ‘em all up, some I just slap about a bit. WDC Cartwright was supposed to be transferrin’ files regardin’ some nasty bastard or another to another CID, only she found time in between makeovers an’ makin’ tea to make a quick trip back in to the station an’ inform me as to where you’d disappeared off to, so I did a bit of research an’ bam, up came ‘is files.”

 

  “Why’d she go back specially for that?”

 

  “Because I’m ‘er bloody DCI an’ you are my DI. ‘Sides, right now, yer mouth’s loose as a prozzie’s drawers, innit?” Gene lowers himself into the armchair opposite, reaching smoothly backwards for his tumbler and bottle of whisky; Sam has to suppress a smile. He’s done _that_ before.

 

  It takes him a second to notice that the tumbler is in fact metal.

 

  “What’s with all the metal cups? You worried yer big, brutish ‘ands will smash ‘em?” Sam waves his pencil vaguely in Gene’s direction, still writing away. Gene snorts.

 

  “Not wastin’ all my hard-earned money on poncy glassware.” And, in a change of subject that even case-absorbed Sam notices, he takes a glug and heaves himself up to peer down at the notepad, reading it upside-down. “What’s ETA?”

 

  “Estimated time of arrival. Police code.”

 

  “No it’s not.”

 

  Sam ignores him, flipping the notepad over. “It’s just a contingency plan. We need to ensure that someone’s mountin’ a surveillance operation on number eighty Heath Road, now that we ‘ave information as to something goin’ on there-”

 

  “Tyler?”

 

  “Yes, Guv.”

 

  Gene licks his lips for any stray whisky as he sits back down, watching Sam through narrowed eyes. “How come yer bunkin’ ‘ere an’ not with Cartwright?”

 

  “Annie’s flat’s not very big, Guv. We’d be constantly trippin’ over each other.”

 

  “Thought you’d enjoy the close proximity,” Gene sniffs, taking another swig of whisky. Sam snorts.

 

  “Shows what your detective skills are then, Guv.”

 

  “You bloody take that right back, Gladys!” Gene’s head snaps up, mouth half-open in shock, to the sight of Sam’s shit-eating grin as he rips the page out of his notebook and shoves it in his pocket.

 

  “Maybe I’m not so averse to the close proximity with you, Guv,” he says slowly, almost quietly enough that Gene can’t hear him, before heaving himself up and heading through into the kitchen to make himself a sandwich.

 

-0-0-

 

  “Do you miss him, Sam?”

 

  He opens his eyes, and she’s nestled on the bed beside him, he can’t even move for pure bloody terror as she scoots closer and there’s a small, cool hand on his forehead, so bloody human for something that’s clearly not-

 

  “Do you miss him?” She points to the doorway, and Gene’s lying in it, blood blooming from his chest.

 

  “GENE!” Sam bolts out, throwing himself down beside Gene, but the moment he touches his Guv he’s gone, only a pool of blood left on the carpet. “Gene! Where’d he go? You bloody- you devil- where is ‘e? Give ‘im back! Give ‘im BACK!”

 

  “You’d better watch out, you’d better not cry. You’d better not pout, I’m telling you why. Gene’ll be dead and you’ll be alone, alone but for the echoes you hear down the phone.”

 

  “Get out! GENE! Where are you?”

 

  “Evil people are coming to town,” the Test Card Girl says softly.

 

  Sam wakes up screaming, clutching the sofa cushions.

 

  And even as he thinks _it’s OK, yer in Gene’s house, he’ll be sleeping upstairs_ , his eyes fix on a whisky stain on the carpet in front of his face, and his whole body starts to shake.

 

-0-0-

 

  “We better not be ‘ere for too long, Tyler. ‘Specially with the distinct lack of bloody evidence we’re currently enjoyin’.” Gene raps his leather-clad fingers against the steering wheel of the Cortina, forehead cleaved in two by a deep frown. Sam raises his eyebrows.

 

  “Scared of the monsters in the night, Guv?” As soon as he’s said it, he wishes he hadn’t.

 

  “Piss off, Tyler,” Gene mutters, huddling into his coat. “’S bloody parky out ‘ere. I could be sinkin’ pints with the lads, in my natural ‘abitat, with Dr Nelson on ‘and to keep my prescription up to date.”

 

  “Even you wouldn’t let new cocaine onto the streets for the sake of a night at the pub, so stop whingin’. We’re police. That’s what we’re paid for.” Sam delves in his pocket and pulls out a Curly Wurly, specially bought earlier… and he’s not sure when he started buying chocolate specifically for Gene, but he has. “Fancy this? Don’t want you wastin’ away now, do we.”

 

  Gene snatches it, yanks the wrapping off and gnaws the tip off with his front teeth, chocolate falling everywhere; then he wraps the rest up and shoves it in his pocket, even though Sam knows he ate nothing at lunch. “’M fine. Just want to go ‘ome.” And if he sees the confusion on Sam’s face, confusion and worry, he doesn’t say anything, just sinks even further into his coat and carries on watching the house.

 

  “What’s wrong with you? Yer not sick again, are you?” Sam leans over to press his hand to Gene’s forehead; Gene bats him away, growling, but not before Sam’s palm finds glowing-hot skin, damp with sweat. “Jesus, Guv, you need to see a doctor. Should get you ‘ome, I’ll come back on my own.”

 

  Gene pulls the sun visor down, casting a shadow over his face. “Shut it. I’ll be fine. Put the soddin’ radio on an’ try to keep still.”

 

  “They might ‘ear the radio. You ever actually been on a successful stakeout before?”

 

  Gene opens his mouth, but at that precise moment, the door of number eighty opens and Noyes lopes out, stopping dead on the step in front of the house, head turning straight in the direction of the Cortina. The Cortina parked halfway down the street, behind another car, all but out of sight.

 

  “Bloody ‘ell!” Gene yanks the keys in the ignition, slams the car into gear and floors it, screeching round the corner as Noyes runs after them, and Sam swerves to stare at him and for some bloody reason he’s actually _gaining_ on the Cortina and Sam’s screaming because this must be a nightmare and Gene’s yelling for him to shut up and they’re round the corner and Noyes is still there and he’s bloody huge and they barrel into another street and there’s a screech and a crash as something huge slams into the driver’s side door-

 

  And he, _it,_ is gone, and Sam doesn’t even realise he’s clinging to Gene until Gene pushes him away, both of them breathing heavily as Gene rolls to a stop in front of his house and kills the engine with shaking fingers.

 

  “What the bloody ‘ell just ‘appened?” Sam breathes.

 

  Gene shoves the door of the Cortina open and lurches to his feet, wrapping his coat tight around his body. “Shut up and get out, Tyler. You can stay if you want, but I’m goin’ to bed now, an’ I don’t want to be disturbed until tomorrow morning.” And he’s gone, leaving a slightly-hyperventilating Sam to haul himself out of the car, wondering whether sanity really is something he knows that intimately after all.

 

-0-0-

 

  _He’s resting back. Watching the moon through the windscreen, Gene next to him, fidgeting and muttering under his breath. The vinyl seats are smooth under his jeans; the sweat’s soaking through beneath his thighs, and he shifts, wordless. They are both so silent._

_A crash, and Gene yells, and Sam’s screaming as Noyes batters his door in and grabs him with one huge hand and he’s dragging him out of the Cortina and down into the gutter and Sam’s sent flying by one clawed bash as the creature slashes its way into Gene-_

“NOOOO!” He leaps upright, up off Gene’s sofa, and  headbutts Gene in the chest, leaning over him with a bottle of whisky. Winded, Gene drops to the floor as Sam grasps at his aching head, the both of them moaning softly as they come to, both glaring at the other from their respective positions on the carpet and the sofa.

 

  “Yer a nutter, Tyler,” Gene wheezes, rolling heavily onto his front to slop a healthy measure of whisky into his tumbler. “An’ you won’t be gettin’ any of this, either.”

 

  “Put that down, you get through enough of that stuff already,” Sam groans, batting the bottle out of Gene’s hand. At least the Test Card Girl has decided to give it a rest for tonight. “I just… ‘ad a nightmare, that’s all. Not surprisin’, after…”

 

  Gene slams his whisky and drains the rest of the bottle into the tumbler. “Shut it. We’re not soddin’ talkin’ about this at two in the morning.” He pours it into his mouth, rolling over onto his back; his hand is shaking just enough that a little spills over the side, running down his cheek. “Bastards…”

 

  Sam yanks his hanky from the pocket of his trousers, discarded beside the sofa. “Yer makin’ a mess, you stupid bastard. You should be in bed, not drinkin’ yerself to sleep, we’re both tired enough for that to work alright.” He wipes over Gene’s chin and up his face, towards his mouth, and he’s concentrating so hard on the warm skin beneath his fingers and the comfort of Gene’s breath rasping against his palm he doesn’t even realise that Gene is frozen in place, staring at him, eyes wide as the handkerchief traces over his uneven skin and up to press against his bottom lip, Sam’s thumb just brushing against it.

 

  “Jesus, as if you need another excuse to drink…” Sam trails off at the shock in Gene’s eyes, his hand still on Gene’s face; the handkerchief falls from his limp fingers, pooling on the carpet beside Gene’s ear as the two men stare at each other, breath mingling in the still morning air.

 

  “Sam,” Gene whispers. His hand twitches, as though to reach up, but thuds straight back to the carpet, clenched in a fist. “We’re tired, we’ve been cooped up together. I’ll go back to bed.” He hauls himself up, sucking air in through his teeth, and where the crumbs from the chocolate bar fell earlier, it looks like arterial spray on his shirt.

 

  Sam tackles him back down to the floor without a second thought, hands on his shoulders, lips inches apart until they’re touching and they’re kissing and Gene’s making desperate, frenetic sounds that Sam takes as encouragement.

 

  And then he’s ripping at Gene’s dirtied shirt, pulling it open button by button, and it’s hardly grandly passionate and Gene’s still half trying to fend him off but his tongue’s licking over Sam’s mouth and his hands are clamped to Sam’s hips; Sam lies him back down, until Gene’s spread over the carpet, one hand in his hair and the other holding his hand down on the carpet as he kisses him like a dying man, drawing his head back to the sight of Gene’s moonlit face in profile, neck stretched and eyelashes casting long shadows-

 

  Gene writhes out from beneath him, sweat popping on his forehead, struggling upright. “Jesus, Sam. I… need to move out of the li-” Words fail him, but Sam’s still mesmerised by his lips, wet from Sam’s bruising kiss. He wraps his hands around Gene’s waist, using Gene’s body to pull himself up, and Gene’s branding hot again but he’s breathing hard enough and- _tented-_ enough for it to be something other than fever. His hand wraps round, under sweat-damp material, and Gene grabs him bodily and yanks him upstairs to his bedroom.

 

  Neither of them notice a movement outside the window, a long brown coat lined with fur, just slipping into a coupé parked in front of the Cortina.


End file.
